You can discard that snarky tweet you just started writing. I know that I changed his quote—I was trying to make a point. We’re better off these days just not speaking at all. Because this is the world we live in: everything is clickbait; gaffes are page views; real ideas are squished into a two-inch-by-two-inch square. It’s all a trap. No one has time to listen or read or think. There’s no point in bothering trying to be articulate or eloquent; they’re going to write about the gum stuck to the back of your suit, instead. As Yogi would say, the future ain’t worth a dime anymore.

Yes, I mangled a Yogi Berra quote last week. Here’s the thing: what no one realizes is that 90 percent of being a mayor is making small talk. Do you know how many people I have to meet on a daily basis? Half the time I don’t even know who I’m talking to, if I’m being frank with you. I have one of those guys by my side like the one Julia Louis-Dreyfus has on Veep, but, you know, if I haven’t had my green tea yet, I can sometimes completely forget who I’m talking to. Once I told Sarah Jessica Parker that I love waking up to her and Michael Strahan every morning—did not hear the end of it from my aides. What I’m trying to say is: the mind slips now and again—you’ve gotta just not let it get to you and move on.

So, I’m sitting there, on the radio on Friday morning, you know, we’ve got a hurricane anticipated, I have important things on my mind, and I slightly alter a Yogi Berra quote. As soon as I said it, I knew the Post would be on me. The Red Sox-Obsessed Traitor Doesn’t Know the Gospel of Our Prophet by Heart! C’mon now, I’m sorry, but ask a hundred New Yorkers—through-and-through lived-here-their-whole-lives New Yorkers—and they wouldn’t know my quote from the actual one.

But, of course, the Post runs a thing about my mess-up—yeah, let’s focus on that instead of the storm that’s on its way that could have catastrophic repercussions (I know it, uh, didn’t end up even hitting us, but that’s not the point). The point is: we live in a world where they’re always looking for what’s going to click. Soon kids are going to learn world history via a list called “The 29 Times King Ferdinand Was on Flick,” or Flack, or Fleek, whatever it’s called—it’s going to be lists and slideshows and disappearing pictures. I decide to do the country a service and go to Iowa to quiz our potential presidents (presidents!!!) about what they’re going to do about income inequality, and all the press wants to talk about is how I’m some sort of deadbeat dad. “Find a picture where he looks like a bird just shat on his head!”—I bet you that’s what they shout to the photo editors at these rags all day long.

I’m telling you, I wake up each day in this city and open the paper, and it’s like letting déjà vu out of the bag and smelling the roses, just like Yogi put it.